


Never Enough (Not Really)

by capricious_Bastard



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 09:37:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20758247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capricious_Bastard/pseuds/capricious_Bastard
Summary: It's both euphoric and disastrous; he despises it, to some degree.





	Never Enough (Not Really)

They share their nights and mornings together; more so than they’re willing to admit. More so than _he_ is willing to admit, aloud or otherwise—and he knows because even before light touches their skin, he’s gone, leaving a man surrounded by cold bed sheets and perspiration mixed with sex in a room too quiet for his liking. But to him, it doesn’t really matter; that’s what he told himself before.

Not anymore, at least.

Not when he caught him one quiet afternoon, hours before the bar’s opening, drinking sinfully dark red wine, chatting with a small smile on his face, sitting so familiarly with his best friend behind the counter and his adopted daughter sitting on the stool beside him.

“Mikoto,” Anna called out, drawing away from the straw she was sipping on, big, bright eyes looking back at him as he emerges from the shadows of the stairwell, groggy with eyes that are still adjusting to the light outside.

Those eyes turn toward his direction, casually, too leisurely as if he wasn’t glaring at him under the morning sun the day prior with an annoyed lilt to his voice.

“Oh,” he breathes out, his smile turning into a smug grin, “Seems your _King_ is awake.” He spoke—an underlying tone to his voice that his groggy and still sleep-induced mind couldn’t process—acknowledged by the soft hum of the blond who’s wiping away at a wine glass.

“Are you hungry?” Kusanagi questioned, glancing at his way, relaxed and unhurried despite knowing the fact that he isn’t going to answer and instead order a glass of Turkey as his way of filling his stomach with ‘something’.

But the soft yet hollow sound of dress shoes hitting the wooden floor has him stopping from taking his usual place on the counter, an unlit cigarette perfectly fit and pressed between his lips as he watches him sip the rest of the wine, dark red tinting his already pink lips before placing the glass down gently with deft fingers, bidding the bartender a curt nod and Anna a simple farewell before he leaves, not sparing the red head any glances as he opens the door and walked out.

He huffs, maybe a bit too sulkily at the fact that he wasn’t acknowledged, glaring at the door he just walked out from before proceeding to take his usual place as he lights the cigarette, muttering for a glass of whiskey to the blond who only complained, as he always does about how he should eat first even as he takes the bottle that’s reserved just for him and pouring it unto a glass one-third of the way from being empty.

“There’s still some fried rice from last night,” he informed the red head, walking toward the door that led to the kitchen, and Mikoto just hums, growls more likely, as he runs his fingers through his hair, turning to see Anna staring up at him.

“Hm?”

And Anna blinks up at him, her lips pursing slightly, almost unnoticeably before she turns to her red colour beverage and sips on the pink striped straw. “What is it?” He voices out this time because now he’s slightly curious as to what the child was staring at him for, but Anna shakes her head at him, her eyes focused to whatever’s she’s decided to put attention at in front of her (unbeknownst to him, what she sees is her beloved red mixed with a colour she couldn’t describe, being nothing but the colour of grey, yet it licks like fire would, and she wonders when Mikoto’s red got mixd with a different colour?).

Kusanagi walks in with a plate of fried rice, small chunks of pineapple visible against the mustard coloured rice, and places it down in front of the younger male. He hums in thanks and Kusanagi goes back to whatever he was doing before whilst he ate, drinking the whiskey with his meal.

“What?”

“Hm?” Kusanagi hums, squinting his eyes at a spot on the glass he’s polishing before his hands slow to a stop. Mikoto waits for the words to register in the blond’s head, the seconds ticking passed along with his patience to hear an answer to his inquiry.

“He was just here for a drink, relax.” The older says, mirth in his voice, maybe a bit to breathy as he tried to pull his lips into something more neutral, not wanting his King to see the grin that threatens to show itself. “Was out on a stroll, wanted a drink, ‘hat’s all.”

And Mikoto somehow finds irritation mixed with relief in those words; he’s irritated because why would Reisi not say anything about today being his day off while he finds it relieving that they didn’t seem to have discussed about anything pertaining to him nor their relationship to the blond. _Kind of embarrassing_, he thought as he scratches the back of neck.

Vision slowly starts to clear as he blinks his eyes open, amber eyes staring at the mahogany ceiling that apparently Kusanagi had to order from Europe. The cigarette between his lips having died out leaving ash and the butt in its wake. He exhales through his nose as he shifts, closing his eyes momentarily as he replays moments of their night together because that’s the first thought that entered his just woken mind; he doesn’t mind though.

Despite having just spent last night together behind closed doors, he couldn’t help but feel as if he, _they_, haven’t seen each other in _days_; _weeks_; _months_. Perhaps he’s exaggerating for the hell of it, maybe he just wants to spend more time with the four-eyed regal bitch who likes to leave claw marks on his back and bite marks on his arms that makes his men question as to what happened to him—it leaves him annoyed with the amount of questions he’s bombarded with but he can’t really keep himself feeling pissed all throughout the day whenever his mind drifts to the way hooded lids stare at him through hazy purple eyes, lips slick with saliva, and skin wet with sweat, with moans that makes his fingers twitch with just the thought of _seeing_ the blue haired captain once again.

_Fallen_. That’s what he is. He’s _fallen_. Fallen for probably the most annoying, smart-ass, joy-kill person in the entire world and he couldn’t have it any other way. He doesn’t want it any other way.

The knowledge has him wanting to stop but not really, he wants everything to fall into place but doesn’t, he wants to touch calloused but delicate hands; he wants to place his hands on the curves of his waist; he wants to run his fingers across milky white skin; he wants to whisper words he never thought of saying since he was a child of five years old.

He knows, full well, he shouldn't. But he does. And it happened so damn fast, so damn quick, he doesn't even want to acknowledge it. He isn’t complaining, per se, but he wishes it happened slowly just for him to process. But one look at the way those resilient lips curl in that smug manner, the way those hips sway with his sword swaying along, the way his shoulders and back keep a regal posture as if he was meant to be leading this amount of people with this amount of confidence leaves him breathless; perhaps a bit tongue-tied with a brain that short circuited.

Their activities are strictly combative, fists meeting metal, blue and red clashing to create an explosion of the brightest, most beautiful shades of purple.

Their activities are strictly pleasure-based, sweat slicked skin meeting together in a resounding slap that echoes along with grunts, groans, whimpers, and moans, and minds that focus on nothing but the space that would never be enough to satiate them both.

It's both euphoric and disastrous; he despises it, to some degree.

The ache in his chest pierces him, leaving him glaring at the ceiling and feeling helpless until he decides to get up and actually wreak havoc himself. During those moments, he forgets the pain, but it comes back; comes back, in full force, in the form of a dark blue haired, purple eyed, glasses wearing, hip swaying, regal ass, Queen-like superiority that makes him wish he stayed in the comforts of Kusanagi's couch, smoking and sleeping with Anna by his side.

"Suoh," his voice is deep, smooth like an untouched river—it sent a shiver down his spine, anticipation crawling from the depths of his stomach, "I do hope you did not just destroy a recreational building just for the purposes of garnering Scepter 4's attention."

It's a statement, it's never a question.

"So, what if I did?"

It's a question, never really a statement.

"Munakata, _draw_."

And just like that, their battle resumes, it may not be behind closed doors with walls that let their voices echo, they may not be tired but still seeking comfort, essentially running on fumes as the sun rises, that dark blue meeting with a fiery red; it's enough.

_But it's never enough_.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my term break, and in my boredom and desire to write, I wrote this.
> 
> [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/capbas13)


End file.
